Monday, June 30, 2003
01:05 p.m.
So, I haven't been real prolific at the old weblog of late. Being back home was nice for a day or two, but ever since then I've gotten all solemn. Bored. I was way too frivolous in Los Angeles and now I'm resigned to weeks of work with no days off, and as much as I'm proud of myself for getting back toward saving for my move*, all I can see are the long, steak and beer-filled evenings lined up in a row. Until I can no longer make out what is after that.

There was however, a very bright spot. The Nashville Scene's editor asked me to write a lenghthy, narrative non-fiction-type piece about The Southern Girls Rock N' Roll Camp. Rather than just preview the event, the editor thought an essay-ish article actually covering the camp would be better, and I'm incredibly flattered he thought of me. The camp isn't until the end of July--a day camp, so I don't have to miss work--at which time I'll observe, interview and get to know teenaged girls interested in rocking the fuck out. Then write 3,000 words about it. Here's hoping I at least come close to fulfilling my high expectations for this story. I think I just might do okay.

Other than that though, life can suck my balls. My proverbial ones, that is. I am thinking of renting "The Birds" or "Delicatessan" tonight, neither of which I have seen. That, or get a six-pack and watch "Barfly."

*Sadly, my move date has been pushed back to Feb. 1. I'm poor. But, my sweetie landlord allowed me a 6-month lease as opposed to a year, so that is a very damned good thing. No need to move, which costs a bundle. I stick it out through the holidays, ask for cash money for gifts and get the fuck up out before winter is up. That is the plan.

connected to those well-connectedThursday, June 26, 2003
04:48 p.m.Charlene, the girl I hung out with in L.A. told me that she'd met up with David Lynch several times. Matter of fact, everyone I met there had met The Man but me.

not youThursday, June 26, 2003
04:08 p.m.
It's very strange. As much as I dislike most people, it really bugs me when a person I sorta dig doesn't like me back. It so doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things--I can't for a second hold it against them. Still, it doesn't bug me so much as intrigue me.

I could spend weeks trying to figure out what combination of things it must be that turns them off me. That kind of self-absorption is undoubtedly a large factor.

fly and drink--never the oppositeWednesday, June 25, 2003
12:45 p.m.
I had to utilize, for the first time in my life, the barf bag. I always see it there, tucked behind the SkyMall catalogue*: the butt of so many jokes, the namesake of so many insults, but one never thinks they'll have to use it.

My last night in Los Angeles went by in the blink of an eye, but in retrospect was several (like 5) hours spent getting shitty. There was vodka. Bar hopping. Breaking into ballrooms. A one-man jam. It's all somewhat hazy.

I fell asleep sometime after 3 a.m., I'm guessing, because at 5:08 the phone was ringing, I'd missed 3 calls and my airport shuttle was already waiting for me outside. Luckily, I'd mostly packed the day before, so I blindly zipped shit up and stumbled outside. It was still dark. I wasn't awake enough to know it yet, but I was still wasted.

The shuttle driver wanted to chew the fat and all I wanted to do was pass back out, but the trip to the airport was too quick for that. Somehow I made it through the gate at Burbank and found I had over an hour until the plane left for Phoenix. And every single, motherfucking, hard plastic-backed chair had armrests. I slept mouth agape, head against the corner with one eye on the clock.

I arrived in Phoenix feeling better until I discovered that my next flight left momentarily and I have to take a train, bus, boat and bike to a terminal alllllll the way on the other side of the enormous-ass airport. Why Arizona needs an airport the size of a small country is beyond me. I had to fucking full-on run to catch my plane and after nearly mowing down what looked to be a family of 8 doddling in the aisleway I made it to my gate. I forked over 3 whole dollars for orange juice and water and slurped down the fruit juice with haste. Sprinting with a heavy carry-on while still mostly inebriated makes one thirsty. I boarded the plane to find myself next to some fatty wearing Puff Daddy clothes and within minutes he'd fallen asleep, monopolizing both armrests since he was in the middle. I tried to catch some rest in the aisle but was distracted by the rail-thin sorority girl eating Wendy's french fries out of the bag, one by one, sliding each fry into a cup of BBQ sauce, coating her fingers and fake french manicure in the dark red, blood-looking stuff. She licked her bony fingers clean when she'd finished her Biggie-sized potatoes. That is when the nausea started to swell.

I wondered if it was nerves. I'm often overly anxious. I convinced myself I was just nervous and tried to breathe through it. An exercise of the chronically high-strung. Then, suddenly, violently--without any warning--I felt the slam of vomit in my throat and groped just in time for the barf bag. Totally humiliated and all of the sudden BARFING MY GUTS UP, I started to cry. All at once I was wretching and crying into a tiny bag in front of like 200 people. There wasn't an empty seat on the entire aircraft. Luckily, I'd had nothing but fluids and the sickness was overly fairly quickly. But still. The poor guy in the row next to me started to reflexively gag and this other lady began awwwing and patting my hair. Everyone knows how vulnerable one feels when he throws up, but imagine how completely out-of-control it is to do so in front of a huge, confined audience. In the dead quiet. Nothing quite carries sound like the inside of a flying tin can.

To my relief, the ultra-nice flight attendant moved me to a seat near the bathroom, which allowed me first and easy access into the lavatory. This also prevented me from having to look into the eyes of the folks I just hurled before. I was given all the Sprite I could drink and a ice-cold washcloth for my forehead. But no amount of lemon-lime soda or first-class style TLC can erase the indignity one experiences when she is forced to upchuck in the airplane barf bag. For all to see and hear.

*Who are these people who buy hot dog-only toasters and robo vacuum cleaners that sweep while you sleep?

return from lala landMonday, June 23, 2003
11:25 a.m.I'm back from vacation and I feel like hell. I think today serves as huge hangover for the 5 nights I spent boozing it up like I was 20 again. Massive, massive amounts of tequila and vodka and beer and wine were had and my brain feels like bloated mashed potatoes.

But the trip was probably the most fun ever and I've got the pictures to prove it. And a few thousand words to accompany them. In due time.

[this is dog-ass tired]Monday, June 16, 2003
12:23 a.m.
This weekend was brutal. Fucking relentless and awful. Father's Day is supposed to be the gentler of the two parental holidays for the restaurant industry, an while this weekend was pushing it, this is still pretty much the case. What I've learned this year is that people like to drink on Father's Day. Mom's gonna have sweet tea, thanks. But Dad? Fuck it. It's his day and he's having a goddamn gin and tonic. And to the adult children's delight, so are they. Everyone gets plowed. Mom, while still fully capable to driving the lot home, can only sip that sorry water so long before she too whispers, "Give me your driest chardonnay."

And they wanted it now. (Or then. Whatever.) They were "going to die of thirst." (He said that shit twice. The first time I mentioned he did look ill. The second time I suggested he have water if that was the case.) And everyone ate at the bar. Wait 2 hours to sit at a booth and have some 18-year-old brand new waiter muck everything up? Oh, hell no. Those kids have beer bongs to get home to, let's just eat up here. Which is great for tip averages. But, daaaamn. I'm fucking tired. [No, for real, I made a more money than is probably legal this weekend, and for that I couldn't be happier. People were almost unbelievably generous. I'll have my feet try to catch up.]

But, now begins my 7-day vacation--my first in over 2 years. I've got more money than my wallet can hold and a plane ticket to California. And, I'm real cool with that. :) I've got days off to cap my trip, tomorrow to be spent packing, and last-minute laundering, and calling people I've been ignoring all weekend (sorry! I just worked close to 30 hours in three days!), and cleaning up my car, and answering email, and mailing off bills, and buying cheap magazines here and not at the airport for 8.99, and lining my luggage with the stolen cash. (I was gonna make that a bomb joke, then a drug one, but chickened out. I'm way too scared.) The day starts, however, with a 9 a.m. appointment to get my hair did. I haven't had even a trim in so long it's almost gross and my hair is three different colors. Horizontally. I'm going to this totally worshipped, totally outrageously expensive place called--get this--Tangerine. They massage your head with oils for like 15 minutes and that was all I needed to hear. I'm going to Elizabeth. I was told Elizabeth is good with naturally curly hair, but I'm sure Elizabeth just had a free slot. [I used to go to Todd. But I stood him up and didn't call, and I just can't show my face in there again, so I'm making a switch. It breaks my heart--he was so good to me. But, really, he fucking annoyed me and asked one too many timed if I wanted to go for a ride on his hog. He rode a motorcycle. And wore braces. And was straight. It was weird.)

Anyway, this might be the last you hear from me for a week. Miss me, hos!

highlightsSaturday, June 14, 2003
01:57 p.m.
I finally finished the archive of favorite posts now featured in the navigate menu at right.

My apologies for the lack of original material of late. I'm, as they say, just not feeling it.

I leave for Los Angeles Tuesday and I won't be back until Sunday evening. Brace yourself for a buttload of photos (I even bought a new flash card and spare battery) and perhaps a story or two upon my return.

heyThursday, June 12, 2003
05:01 p.m.
If you've sent email to my f2o account within the last 24 hours you might want to resend it to my hotmail account (brittneylynn@). There seems to be a problem with the server.

hot assThursday, June 12, 2003
01:16 a.m.
Laundromats suck for myriad reasons. One of those reasons is you never get straight-from-the-dryer-hot panties to put on, unless you go about changing right at the wash place.

I did laundry almost 12 hours ago at the Duds N Suds. Just now I pulled a pair of drawers out of the basket (Fold and hang? What is that noise?) and they were still a bit toasty. Somehow.

presentlyWednesday, June 11, 2003
11:33 a.m.
There is thing thing about trying to overcome an addiction. This thing that triggers your every, single fear. You're scared of life without it, even as frightened as you were in it's soul-sucking grips. You're scared that your life won't be the same. Scared to fucking death. And it won't be the same.

My sentiments exactly. Except, I'm one of the people he mentions who thought the CGI was too CGI-y. Although, I hate to admit it after that sharp Italian restaurant analogy. I demand to know why all the fucking pasta!

Look at the delusion of grandeur going on down page. See that "site created by PrismPerfectProductions"? Ahahahahaha. What a really lame-ass name that is. PrismPerfectProductions. That one took a long time to come up with, too. (Crazy how much we morph and mature in just 4 years.) Thank GOD there isn't anything on the other side of that link.

Web surfers everywhere (okay, the few of you) breathe a sigh of relief that I opted to write shit rather than design shit. I mean, my code is atrocious.

(Mass Transit is still a band. A gigging very good one. They wised up and got themselves a more capable web designer.)

[Justin, You're the first person I write tomorrow when I do the bunch. One of your letters was rescued from the Bermuda Triangle that is hotmail just last week. Sorry! I've been busy getting all stolen from and shit!]

alternate realityFriday, June 6, 2003
02:14 p.m.
I always thought my first boyfriend was Todd Ignatz, the red-haired boy who was in my 3rd grade class. But, for no reason at all I just remembered Jamie Huff. My kindergarten boyfriend. He went to the same after-school care place as me and wore his blonde hair long on top. He was an actor, like his mom. I think his biggest gig was a Rudy's Farm sausage commercial in which he danced up and down a grocery aisle in overalls and a straw hat.

His mother drove a metallic-blue Iroc-Z and while I thought she was a regular on "Hee-Haw," a brief internet search has left me empty-handed as to proof. I remember her apartment had this crazy jungle wallpaper and a huge hammock the actor-boyfriend and I would lie in.

His mom convinced my mom to bring me along to an audition for a horror movie being shot locally. They were casting area children as extras. (I thought it was this movie, but the release date says 1987, which is far too late for my assumption to be correct.) I barely remember the audition at all, more so the outcome of my one and only screen audition.

I got a call back. And my actor-boyfriend didn't. And so his mom made us break up.

It makes me a little sad Todd Ignatz isn't really my first boyfriend. Sausage boy is a foggy memory, but what I remember of him was really lame.

So, I just witnessed what might be one of the most retarded commercials of all time. Huge claim, I know. But you must hear me out.

The spot was for Tampax Compak, the tampon no bigger than the palm of your hand. Lovely idea. So far, I'm with the Tampax people 100%. In this commercial, the wonders of the convertible tampon are revealed by illustrating how one piece fits inside the other, making the product one half the size. Perfect for small purses, discreet hand-offs and pockets. But not a new invention. No see' em tampons have been out for a while now. Because they are a pretty good idea they stuck around.

Then the piece cuts to a boy and a girl, teenagers, at a table having coffee, or perhaps hot tea. The boy is shaking in his hand what is clearly a compact tampon, about to rip the sucker open. The girl, unphased, says, "Sugar? I thought you were on a diet." At which time the boy smiles sheepishly, and opts to take his beverage unsweetened.

And we are just supposed to swallow it.

Since when do people root around in the purses of their dinnermates for sweetener? Where did the bloody tampon (well, whoops) come from? And they expect me to believe that a tube wrapped in pastel plastic looks ANYTHING like a sugar packet?

But seriously, what kind of pansy-ass boy won't even sweeten his coffee if he wants to? Sure, he's on a diet, but come on, now. He doesn't even opt for pink or blue stuff, just drops his head and drinks it black. This kid is already verrrry suspicious.

But my main problem is not either of those things. It is: What girl after seeing her date about to tear into a tampon with the intention of putting it in his tea doesn't bust up laughing, point her finger at him and scream, "What the fuck, dude?! You gonna dunk that or something? It's neat to watch them expand really fast when you get them wet all at once*, but we are in public." Because, if you've been digging around in my bag, all up in my business, and mistake a tampon for sugar, then you deserve a hearty teasing.

This girl, whose best effort is a guilt trip, thinks she plays it so smooth--but, she has it all wrong. Never play dumb.

*Lord, don't ask me why, but I think I forced an ex-boyfriend to watch me hold a tampon under water once. To watch it blow up. 'Cause it's pretty neat. If you've never done it.

oops!Monday, June 2, 2003
03:42 p.m.
Every couple of weeks someone professionally cleans the carpets in my building. The carpeting is left very damp even an hour after he leaves. There is a plastic runner on the staircase, that when wet, takes on many of the same properties as ice.

bartending: Sunday nightMonday, June 2, 2003
02:03 p.m.Weirdest thing said to me by a customer: "You look like Jeannie. Jeannie in a bottle. Are you out of your bottle?"

Dumbest shit pulled by a server: Was chilling a martini glass by filling it with ice and soda water. The server, who was waiting for a Pineapple 'Tini (not a real martini at all, but a mixed drink straight up and overpriced) grabbed the water and ice in the martini glass and trotted off to her table with it, the Pineapple 'Tini still in the shaker in my hand.

Sissiest drink order: "I want a Zima, but pour part of it out [emphasis mine] and fill it up with grenadine."

Best response to the "I am moving--maybe to California" conversation that inevitably arises: "I'm sick of this world. Bunch of dreamers. Everybody is damn delusional."

Worst part of shift: Having to cut off man who admitted off the bat he was celebrating a divorce. It was a sad celebration, I have to say.

Number of new bruises or cuts: 3

Best part of the evening: Finding full pack of cigarettes and a lighter under the napkin of a poor tipper. Then distributing them to the smoker guests.

Thoreau-styleeSaturday, May 31, 2003
02:15 p.m.
The City of Murfreesboro is repaving my street today. Right now. Right now, the teeth-chattering trucks and tools are out there making new pavement and really stinking up the area. Shirtless, meth-addict-lookin' motherfuckers are hanging out below my window, fucking screaming at each other over the raucousness. As you might have already assumed, it totally fucking rocks.

Yesterday, I had quite a different experience. I went to the Greenway, which as seen here before, is this really pretty stretch of bike/walking track by the Stones River. Civil War battles were fought there, and I am always of reminded that on my strolls or jogs, thanks to landmarks and informative signs at notable spots. Which has nothing to do with yesterday. So, I'm jogging--plodding, really--not really feeling up to it, when I decide to hike down into a clearing. There was this beautiful little spot where the water rushed over short falls and there sat large, flat rocks all in a row, seemingly placed there on purpose. I climbed down a petrified, downed tree, scaling it's exposed roots and carefully tiptoed out into the stream. And it was fucking awesome. The sun was shining through the canopy of green leaves above, marking the large stones with it's light. The rays struck the usually murky water and it actually sparkled. At first I wished I had my camera to capture the lovliness of the spot. Then at least pen and paper to write down the feeling of serenity that overtook me. But then, I closed my eyes, and fell back onto my elbows and thought of nothing at all except the sound of the water. At first my stomach was tight, fearful that someone might stumble upon me down in the water. I wasn't so far off the path at all. But I forcibly pushed down the mostly irrational fear, (Brought on by what looked to be a coverall suit tied around a tree, a black one. Sort of wigged me out when I saw it first.) and was able to rest, mind and body, for 20 minutes or more on a rock in the middle of a babbling brook, turning my face to the sun like a toad.

After escaping into the sound of the water, I placed two hands into the rushing, reflective stream and pulled out a smooth black shell. After running it over in my hand for a while, I scrambled back up the tree and into the track. I ran with the shell tucked in my left palm, and once back to my car, placed it in the tray.

I think I've found my spot. I will certainly be going back--with camera and with paper and pencil--but not for a while. For a while I want it to just be me.

enjoy the showFriday, May 30, 2003
11:26 a.m.
So, as you might have guessed, having a webcam is weird. Really freaky. I've been living on camera pretty much non-stop for about two weeks now...and it's all kinds of fucked up.

First of all, I'm all hyperaware. Of how I look, what I'm doing, how I'm sitting. (In fact, just now, I discovered the desktop cam was running and turned it off--too weird to have someone watching over my shoulder, more or less, while I write.) It's pretty surreal to know some stranger just heard you cough. I feel like I live in a zoo or something.

I've been turning the camera off more and more frequently in order to fully relax. There is no real calm when you think someone might be looking in on you. That said, you quickly get used to the feeling.

I've had some interesting responses from folks about it. No harm was intended, but the word narcissist came up. And there are certainly shades of truth to that. But, honestly, it is more an experiment. It is interesting to note how I behave when two or five people are keeping tabs. It is not altogether different, but certainly somewhat staged. I'm always a little nervous.

And, naturally, I wonder about the people who have the screen open. This camera feed is more or less live, streaming video. No one has to refresh to see a new image. If someone I knew had a similar set-up I would most definitely be tuning in from time to time.

The aspect of being watched, I think, is the element I am most fascinated with. As a film buff, I've spent so many hours watching the orchestrated lives of fictional characters. I've delved into what it means to be a voyeur. Studied Laura Mulvey's theory of The Gaze. I am intrigued by people--I love to watch them as much or more than anyone--and being the watched is a unique and inverse experience. No doubt it fulfills in me a hint of a fetish--in my kinks I tend to be more submissive than dominant. (Good lord, too much information...)

I suspect, though, I won't be leaving it on as often in the future. I am already turning it off for stretches at a time so that I can, ya know. Be me. For instance, when someone I know has the cam URL calls, I wonder if they are watching me not take their call. (No big surprise, but I often screen my calls.) I can't discreetly opt not to answer when I think they might be watching me snub them. And the desktop cam is entirely too Big Brother for my liking. Someone I emailed said they saw me draft the piece--an unsettling experience for us both. So, I doubt I'll be running that thing very much either. If I find some great hentai or midget porn, though, I'll fire that bad boy up for ya.

In the time it took to write this entry I've turned the desktop cam off, muted the sound, then finally, shut the whole thing down. It is bizarre being seen by an anonymous someone you might know (and very well), but might not, but you can't quite tell since IP addresses aren't always indicative of permanent residence. That doesn't mean I'm not always trying to discover who is watching the broadcast; it's a game of sorts. It is easy to idenitify some of the viewers, to whom I've written notes and held them to camera. Other times, it's a complete mystery.

And I suppose that is sort of why I've tolerated the cam being on all this time. It is a big mystery. One of the things I love most.